


A More Intimate Partnership

by TwelveLeagues



Category: Les Misérables (TV 2018)
Genre: Alley Sex, Hand Jobs, Identity Porn, Javert deciding to seduce the mayor, M/M, because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:01:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwelveLeagues/pseuds/TwelveLeagues
Summary: Javert wishes to know Monseiur Madeleine better. Both of them get more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	A More Intimate Partnership

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



There were altogether too many people at the festival for Jean Valjean’s liking.

Or no, if he were being fair, he would say that the festival was a triumph. The people of Montreuil-sur-Mer had surpassed themselves, pouring first into the square for dancing and then into the town hall for feasting and drinking and even more dancing. 

Anyone who didn’t gather in the town square was making merry in a wine shop, arguing with a street trader or spilling out into the streets. Children shrieked with joy when Valjean knelt to make them dolls from straw, the young ladies of the factory whispered to one another and cast meaningful glances across the square at garrisoned soldiers and the town’s elders gossiped as happily and as viciously as they did on their most vigorous of days. Banners fluttered in the breeze and the smell of roasting meat hung in the air. It was agreed by all to be a great success and, by the time the sun had sunk and proceedings had made their way into the town hall, Jean Valjean had spent quite enough time around his townspeople to last him a good many months.

Madame L—, the old butcher’s widow, had cornered Valjean in a secluded part of the great hall where he had hoped to gather his thoughts for a moment. That hope was slipping further from his grasp with every passing minute, he realised forlornly. Madame L— was at least half an hour into an impassioned complaint about the new butcher, whom she said had no respect for his profession and could not be trusted to joint a horse, let alone a smaller animal.

“And furthermore,” she said, her tone growing increasingly appalled, “I don’t know where he’s finding his beasts. Why, I send my girl out to him in the morning and he sends her back with nothing but gristle. I ask you, Monsieur le Maire, is that any way to treat his predecessor’s wife?”

Jean Valjean, who did his best to stay abreast of the goings-on in his town without being drawn too far into such disputes, thought it prudent not to take sides in this matter. Instead, he gave Madame L— a pained smile, which she took for a gesture of complete solidarity.

“I’m delighted to have your support in this matter,” she said, turning to rejoin the festivities. “I always said that you’d shape up to be a fine mayor. What are a few peculiarities when weighed against sound judgement?”

Valjean smiled his peculiar smile and watched her disappear into the crowd. Now, perhaps, he might have a moment to himself.

“The meat isn’t so bad, from what I’ve heard.” Javert was at Valjean’s elbow. Valjean stiffened, whatever relief he’d felt at Madame L—‘s departure shrivelling away as Javert sidled closer.

“I’m told that the new butcher sent her his finest cuts when he first took on the job, but Madame continually found fault with them. The meat was not generously cut or the animal was in poor health or—” Javert waved a hand as if to suggest the range of typical complaints a widow might present to a butcher. “All of which is to say that the new butcher’s true fault is that he is not the old butcher.”

“A woman can hardly be blamed if no one can measure up to her husband,” Valjean said. He watched Madame L—‘s skirt tails vanish into the crowd. “One might even call that an admirable quality in a widow.”

“Either way, the new butcher now sends her his worst cuts and makes no secret of it,” Javert replied. Out of the corner of his eye, Valjean saw him turn. His eyes moved up and down Valjean’s body, a form of scrutiny that no longer felt unusual or even particularly alarming to Valjean after months of Javert’s presence in the town. “And as a consequence, the whole town knows that Madame L— is not a reliable witness on the matter of the new butcher.”

Valjean turned to face Javert, whose expression was amused, inscrutable. Javert was carrying two glasses of wine, one of which he held out. After a moment’s hesitation, Valjean accepted the glass and took a cautious sip. For a brief, irrational moment he wondered if Javert might have slipped something into his glass. But he dismissed the thought. Javert wanted something from him and had never disguised the fact. But he certainly didn’t want Valjean dead.

Javert sipped his own wine, his eyes fixed on Valjean, and did not speak.

“And how are you enjoying the festival?” Valjean asked after a moment’s silence. 

Javert glanced out into the throng and inclined his head.

“With respect, Monsieur le Maire, the festival is no more intended for my enjoyment than it is for yours. The thieves and cutthroats have been out in force, and no doubt there will be some mischief in the ale houses this evening.” Javert raised a glass in an ironic toast. “Still, it’s good to be kept busy. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Valjean forced a tight smile. Javert made him uneasy at the best of times, but this strange sympathy was unnerving. “A policeman comparing himself with a mayor,” he remarked, a little icily. Javert stiffened at that, but he did not withdraw.

“I would never presume to be so frank with a magistrate,” Javert replied. He stepped closer. “But you and I, we have a thing or two in common, wouldn’t you agree?” 

“I believe we all have much in common.” Valjean avoided Javert’s eyes but could not miss his low chuckle. 

“Do you really? ”Javert’s voice was lower and his accent a little rougher. Valjean had not heard him speak so coarsely in all his years in Montreuil. Javert, too, had polished himself for his entry into decent society. “You think those good people — the ones who praise your good works and honour you with fetes and titles — are no better than the scum I protect them from? Who rob and injure and have no respect for a single one of them?” 

Valjean did not reply. After a moment, Javert sighed. “I think these people would be most disappointed to hear how little regard their mayor has for them.”

Despite the venom his words suggested, there was no rancour in Javert’s voice. He was studying Valjean, standing close enough that Valjean could smell the soap Javert had used that morning. It was a bitter smell, and sharp enough to cut through the inviting scents of meat and wine and perfume. 

Looking Javert over, as if for the first time, Valjean realised that he had half-dressed for the occasion. His dark trousers were the same ones he wore every day, and his shirt seemed no different than usual. But he wore a waistcoat with a satin blue sheen and a creamy silk cravat that caught the candlelight and suited his complexion. How long had he spent justifying the purchase to himself, Valjean wondered. How long had he spent this morning lingering over his clothing?

It had paid off. In the warm glow of the candlelight, the two of them almost resembled a pair of electors, standing just a little too close. In a different kind of party, perhaps among like-minded wealthy friends in Paris, it would not be unheard of for one such man to lay his hand on the other one’s arm and guide him to a more private room.

Such a thing was not unheard-of in the hulks either, of course. And perhaps that was more along the lines of what Javert had in mind when he said, “Monsieur, I believe there is something we ought to discuss.” He placed a hand on Valjean’s arm.

Valjean froze at the touch. Javert’s grip was entirely unlike the touches Valjean remembered from Toulon, where he was used to being hauled in all directions by uncaring touches. Javert was solicitous in his manner, indicating with the merest hint of pressure which way he would like Valjean to move. But it was enough of a reminder of those cruel hands and Valjean flinched away. He took a step backwards, the echo of his boots suddenly too loud in the great hall.

When he looked up, there was a hint of a smile playing in the corner of Javert’s mouth.

“Forgive me,” Valjean said, his voice rougher than he would have preferred. “I must attend to...” he glanced at the moving throng, hoping some ill-tempered fishmonger or a farrier with a longstanding grudge might catch his eye and petition him for his attention. But for once it seemed that the people of Montreuil had no need of him.

Javert was still smiling. “Your people seem perfectly capable of taking care of themselves,” he observed with a silky assurance. “As well you know, I’m sure. The knowledge must comfort you on those long journeys of yours.”

Valjean looked out at the blur of swirling dresses and stamping boots, his vision blurring until he could see nothing but the shadows behind the dancers. And there, through the shadows, lay the woods beyond the town and the darkness between the trees. What did Javert know about his long journeys, exactly?

“Monsieur le Maire is a fine rider,” Javert said, his gaze following Valjean’s across the room. As always, his voice was laced with mockery, but there was a curious tone to it. “That’s what the ladies say, at least. An excellent tall man. Such well-turned shirts and handsome coats.”

Valjean sipped his wine and did not speak. The shadows from behind the woods were pressing closer, he realised now, and gathering in the edges of the room. He looked back at Javert, who was openly smiling now. His arm still tingled where Javert’s hand had landed on it. He had not been touched so gently in long years, and then but rarely. But there had been nothing earnest or kind in Javert’s gentle touch.

“People see what they wish to,” Valjean said, because it seemed Javert was waiting for an answer. “A man is not his body. Or his property, for that matter.” And he is not his past, he wished to add. But the words caught in his throat. To deny the decades that had formed him would be to deny, just as surely, his meeting with the bishop and the frosted-over memories of his youth. 

To his horror, he felt a surge of emotion rising within him, threatening to spill out in front of Javert, who still watched him with a hawk’s eye. “But really, Javert, I must go. I hope you won’t be offended if I...”

He finished the last of his wine with a clumsiness he would not normally permit himself in public, the rush of it rich and heady in his throat. When he lowered the glass, the room shifted with the dancers and Javert was closer than before, pressing a handkerchief to his mouth.

“There,” Javert murmured, dabbing at the trickle of wine Valjean had spilled in his haste to finish. He lowered the handkerchief and plucked the glass from Valjean’s hand, but he did not step away. And when Valjean moved to stop back again, his back bumped lightly against the wall. He gave a shocked little laugh, hoping perhaps that he might intimidate Javert into withdrawing. 

“You are relentless, Inspector,” he said. His voice was tight in his throat. The dancers seemed more distant now, somehow, than they had been before. Javert followed his gaze, still smiling. He moved, impossibly, closer, catching up Valjean’s hand in his.

Valjean swallowed. He opened his mouth to order Javert away, to declare this an egregious overstep of Javert’s boundaries, to invoke his authority as mayor. A part of him wanted to do nothing but howl his helplessness, as he had done so many times before when words deserted him, but that would certainly attract unwanted attention. Instead, he reached out to take hold of Javert’s upper arm.

Jean Valjean was larger than Javert and stronger too. But Javert simply smiled at the touch, as though his advances were being reciprocated.

“Are you afraid of what they’ll make of this sight? Don’t be: Their minds are fixed on their small rivalries and their businesses and their marriage prospects.” He traced a circle in Valjean’s palm with a finger. Valjean felt rooted to the ground, unable to move or throw Javert off: barely even able to breathe evenly. “And I’d venture to guess, monsieur, you aren’t a suitable prospect for the ladies of this town.”

Valjean threw another glance across the room. No one had caught sight of them. They might as well have melted into the darkness gathering at the edges of his vision. And even if someone had seen, he realised now, it would not have mattered. Javert had chosen to make his approach in public for a reason.

Indeed, as he watched, Javert withdrew with a final glance up and down Valjean’s body. Then he lifted Valjean’s hand and, dipping into a bow, brushed warm lips against Valjean’s knuckles.

Was that a turned head in the corner of Valjean’s vision? He did not turn to look. A shameful heat rose in his chest. He had shed the shame of the hulks, had he not? He dressed and spoke as much like a magistrate as he could manage. He owned property and covered up the marks left by 19 years of servitude. He had never— he was as untouched as he had been when he arrived at Toulon. And yet now, Javert chose to mark him with this.

“Rough hands,” Javert observed, when he straightened. His hand lingered on Valjean’s, as though he were unwilling to release him even from this mockery of tender feeling. 

Valjean met his eyes steadily. “I’m no stranger to hard work. I’ve made no secret of that.”

Javert made a thoughtful sound. His thumb drew and idle circle in Valjean’s palm, the intimacy of the gesture sending a shiver of sensation through Valjean. It was somehow more shocking than the kiss. He glanced out at the room.

“And what will they think of you? If they notice?”

Javert’s expression closed off at that. His grip on Valjean’s hand tightened. Then he smiled. “People already think what they will. They underestimated me every day of my life, and I’ve proven every one of them wrong.”

Well, there was no doubt of that. When Valjean himself left Toulon, he himself had assumed he’d be leaving Javert to fester in the hulks along with the men he guarded. It had been a nasty sort of comfort, to know that the guards were as trapped in that hell as the prisoners, for all their petty tyrannies.

And yet here Javert was: Almost respectable in his satin cravat, standing close enough that Valjean could feel the heat of his body. And he was handsome. Perhaps if Valjean were a different man — if Javert’s intentions weren’t quite so transparent — the attention might have been flattering. 

“I think that will be all for today,” Valjean said, cutting off the thought before it could fully form. He handed Javert his empty glass and strode past him. He passed the dancers and the flickering candles and the fiddler who looked almost fit to drop. The summer night was still warm and heavy, but it was quieter. The sky was jet black and bright with stars.

He only made it a few steps from the hall before Javert caught up with him.

“I do not need an escort, Javert.” Valjean’s voice was tight. What control he was able to hold over himself at public events was wearing away. And perhaps this was Javert’s true intention, he realised with alarm: To strip away his carefully cultivated manners, his respectable outer layer until there were no quick retorts or polite denials left. Eventually there would be nothing but the rawness of Jean Valjean himself.

“One never knows, Monsieur.” Javert slipped into place at his side and placed a courteous hand on Valjean’s lower back. His fingers fell at the curve of a hip, where Valjean bore the marks of a brutal whipping for some long-forgotten infraction. “Even a small town can hide thieves and murderers.”

Valjean ignored that and pressed on, trying to ignore the weight of Javert’s hand on him. Javert did not speak either, apparently satisfied that Valjean hadn’t ripped his arm off at the touch — although Valjean had no doubt that Javert would have been just as pleased if he did so.

There were no chains on him, he reminded himself, though the weight of an iron collar had never felt further from his throat. Javert may have been leading this march, but he did not dictate its route. Not yet, at least. 

Valjean crossed the road, taking them not through the town’s main thoroughfare but into an alley. Beside him, he felt Javert tense. Good, he thought. Why should only one of them feel powerless in this?

“Nervous?” asked Valjean, glancing at Javert.

“On guard,” Javert corrected him. “These are treacherous streets.”

“They’re quiet,” Valjean corrected him. His rooms were quieter, he knew. And safer, for that matter. But he could not bear the thought of letting this happen in his home, of letting Javert’s memory taint his private chambers.

He turned to Javert, who was watching him closely. And then, moving quickly so he would not have time to change his mind, he placed his hands on Javert’s shoulders.

Javert’s chest rose and fell rapidly. He gave a brief, shocked laugh. Valjean pressed his mouth to Javert’s, his heart racing as one of Javert’s hands came up to grasp at his collar, the other clutching at his back.

It was not a kiss, not really. Jean Valjean did not know what a kiss should be, but he knew it should not be this. This was clumsy and urgent. It might have been a warning. It was attempting to be a bargain. But whatever it was, it was not a kiss. 

Javert looked stunned when they pulled apart, Valjean noted with satisfaction. His lips were still parted and his hand was still tangled in Valjean’s collar. It seemed he was not expecting to have his courtship turned around upon him so thoroughly. But there was something else in his expression.

Valjean took a short breath. The walls seemed to sway around him. 

“There,” he said. “Is that what you’ve been after?”

Javert nodded, but there was something uncertain in the gesture. He raised a hand to wipe his mouth, as though contemplating the question. And then, before Valjean had time to react, Javert’s hands were on his shoulders and Valjean was being propelled backwards until he was up against the wall, the cool stone anchoring him as nothing in the overheated hall had seemed to. And then Javert’s hand was on his cheek, tilting his face up, and Javert’s mouth was on his jaw and Valjean was gasping into the swirling night.

He squeezed his eyes closed, heart pounding but somehow calmer as Javert’s hands moved over his shoulders. Javert’s teeth grazed his throat and it felt like neither the rawness of steel against skin or the false comfort of a silk cravat. It was not a courtly brush of lips against a hand, and that was good. Valjean had never needed such gentle treatment and Javert did not wish to give it to him. Here, away from the music and the lights and the watchful eyes, there was no need for pretence. 

Valjean swallowed, reaching up to bunch a hand in Javert’s shirt. He felt as though he had been tiptoeing over a narrow bridge for years, and now for the first time he could see the abyss open up beneath it. Perhaps it would swallow him, perhaps he would make it across. But there was a curious numbness in accepting the possibility of falling. He had been holding on for so long, and falling would only take a moment.

Javert’s hand came up to tug at his cravat. Was this the moment, then? Valjean gasped as Javert’s other hand landed between his thighs. His hips jerked up of their own accord, as if meeting the touch and begging for more.

“I don’t know,” Javert said, his voice rough. It took a moment for Valjean’s distracted mind to recall what Javert might not know. Javert had taken hold of his cravat but he had not pulled it free. There was no need, Valjean supposed: They both knew what that would mean. For now Javert satisfied himself with fondling Valjean through his trousers, drawing a helpless groan. 

“ _Is_ this what I want? I thought it was, I’ll admit. But now...” Javert stroked the front of Valjean’s trousers, his free hand coming up to feel the heat of Valjean’s throat. His fingers skimmed the edge of Valjean’s cravat, but he did not pull it loose. Instead he removed his hand from Valjean’s trousers, moistening his lips as Valjean’s hips thrust upwards into the empty air. 

Distantly Valjean heard the sound he made: half a moan and half a sob. He wanted to be away from here, safe behind his locked door and sturdy walls. He wanted to be back in the town hall, stagnating in petty disputes and small glasses of red wine. He wanted the silence of the woods where his secrets were undisturbed. Anywhere would be safer than here, where everything might be lost at any moment. And yet, he did not throw Javert off. And yet, if Javert had asked him what he wanted in that moment...

He pulled Javert to him and Javert moved too easily, his face tilting upward to catch Valjean’s mouth in the kiss that Valjean himself was trying to claim. Javert’s hands were on his shoulders, frantic, and if he was trying to feel for the marks on Valjean’s body, perhaps Valjean deserved no less. Javert’s thigh moved between his legs, the pressure and ache of it rushing through Valjean. If Javert pressed a little harder, there would be pain. But pain could be borne. Pain was easier to understand than whatever this was. 

“I thought I was courting a _gentleman_ ,” Javert’s voice was thick and amused in his ear. And there, Valjean could feel another pressure against his leg. Javert’s hands were moving on the fastenings of his own trousers, pulling out his prick. He kissed Valjean again, long and slow as he worked himself, leaving Valjean with nothing but his thigh to thrust up against. “A pious, kind man, they say. That’s how you run your business, isn’t it? ‘Be an honest man, be an honest woman.’”

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed as Javert breathed a laugh into his neck and nipped at the vulnerable skin under his jaw.

“Javert, please,” he said. But he could no longer tell what he was asking for.

“I thought, a respectable man like Monsieur Madeleine will need gentle handling. Soft words and flattery. Delicate treatment.” He tightened his grip on Valjean’s shoulder and Valjean‘s hips jerked upwards,in the grips of a terrible unwanted pleasure. “And this is what I find instead. I don’t even need to get your clothes off to see what kind of man you are.”

Javert’s eyes were fixed on Valjean and his arm worked, stroking himself with harsh, jerking motions. He was half-leaning against Valjean, enough that Valjean felt crowded but not so heavy that Valjean could not shove him away if he wished to. Instead, Valjean concentrated on breathing.

“You look fatigued, Monsieur.” Javert’s voice was low and taunting, his knee still pressed between Valjean’s legs. He withdrew a little and Valjean tried to follow him, but Javert’s hand was still on his shoulder and Valjean allowed himself to remain pinned against the wall. “Would you like me to finish you off?”

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed. “Yes.”

“Yes _please_.” There was a pointedl thrust of Javert’s thigh. A gentle hand at his jaw and a disappointed tut, but Javert could not disguise the satisfaction in his voice. “No manners at all. But perhaps it’s my fault for expecting better.”

Valjean squeezed his eyes closed, preparing himself for… what? For a blow? More mockery? He would bear it, he thought, as long as Javert did not leave him untouched. 

Javert sounded disappointed and pleased all at once. “Very well then. I suppose a man can’t help his nature.”

And then Javert was kissing him again and his leg was replaced by a warm, firm hand, moulding itself to the shape of him. Valjean groaned into Javert’s mouth as Javert worked him mercilessly, drawing out pleasure and shame until Valjean was gasping and clutching his shoulders and the front of his trousers were ruined.

Afterwards, Javert pulled back, looked down at his work and gave a soft laugh. He buried his face in Valjean’s shoulder, allowing Valjean to take his full weight as he moved his hand back to his own prick, which was still hard and waiting. Valjean’s eyes moved from Javert’s hand to his parted lips to his squeezed-closed eyes as he drew out his orgasm with long, lazy strokes. He watched as though it were happening to another man as Javert came, panting against his shoulder, over Valjean’s waistcoat and his frock coat and the wall behind them.

They stood together, breathing heavily and then shallowly, as Javert gradually rearranged himself. After a minute or so, he was buttoned up and upright, though an observant bypassed might note that he was still breathing heavily and there was something uncertain and watchful in his expression. Under his coat, Valjean thought with some satisfaction, he must have sweated dark patches into his clean white shirt. Even if his clothes weren’t as obviously ruined as Valjean’s, some damage must have been done.

Javert’s hand was moving hesitantly now, his fingers tracing the stains he’d left on Valjean’s clothing. It was too dark to see the worst of it, to Valjean’s relief, but Javert could feel the evidence well enough. And as he moved his hand upwards, he trailed a little of the mess up and over Valjean’s shirt and up to his throat.

Again, Javert’s fingers trailed across Valjean’s cravat and Valjean flinched. So this was to be it, he realised. Javert had waited until he was truly brought low before striking his killing blow. And Valjean had followed him willingly down this road, hadn’t he?

“Go on then,” he said, mustering up what defiance he could. He met Javert’s eye.“This is what you’ve been after, isn’t it?”

Javert moistened his lip, his gaze faltering. After a moment, he lowered his hand. The satisfaction in his expression had soured a little. He swallowed and barked a laugh and stepped back.

“Perhaps you can escort yourself from here, Monsieur,” he said abruptly. And then, as though he were surprised to hear his own words, he frowned.

Valjean straightened, his eyes still wary on Javert, who was watching him with a curious, hunted expression. He opened his mouth to ask what Javert was playing at, but the words died on his lips. His soiled clothes were cooling in the night air, and he shuddered as a breeze skittered through the alley. Finally he nodded, not trusting his voice.

His residence was not far from the town hall. If he travelled through the back streets, he could move without being caught. It was bad enough to be seen leaving the party with Javert; it would hardly do to be caught in this state. He glanced over his shoulder at Javert, who had hesitated on the verge of the bright thoroughfare. Yes, he thought, as he turned to face the narrow alley. This suited him well enough. He’d been at liberty to walk those wide, paved roads for many years now and had never once questioned that freedom.

“We aren’t done, Monsieur!” Javert called after him as he turned his face to the shadows. There was still an unease in Javert’s voice, but Valjean nodded as he slipped into the night in search of a quiet route home. Whatever it was Javert had seen of him, there was no doubt he would seek to see it again.


End file.
